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The Tambard and the Maricet
(Araleyn’s Song)

The tambard wore Rohalion’s crown
where wide and deep the Anvar wound
through farm and village rich with kine
to seas beyond them, silverine.

In Xanthace sat the maricet
in broad estate and land bedecked
in soils and sunshine where the vine
embraced the Forest Ylandine.

And these two things beguile me yet:
the tambard and the maricet.

The tambard royal nightly played
to lords and princes rich arrayed,
captains renowned on land and sea
in arts of puissance, valiancy.

Noble, the maricet, designed
for lords and ladies high refined,
skilled in all philosophy,
art-exquisite in courtesy.

and these two things beguile me yet:
the tambard and the maricet.

The tambard’s note was sunlit streams
clear and bright, yet brushed with dreams
of stars upon the midnight sea,
upon the waves, eternally.

The maricet dropped notes of dew
in morning grass. Who heard them knew
the secret of the winds; could see
unknown and fragile ecstasy.

And these two things beguile me yet:
the tambard and the maricet.

Rohalion lauds the maricet;
in Xanthace, the tambard is well met.
Such beauty must truly, by consent,
not vie in art, but complement.

Together, they beguile me yet:
the tambard and the maricet.


Remembering the Autumn Skirmish
(Softfoot’s long ride home)

The snow falls still;
white on the plain,
the plain, white
with snow.

The leaves fell then;
red on the road,
the road, red
with leaves.

The snow falls,
white on the skin;
The skin,
white like snow.

And blood fell too
from hearts strong and brave;
from hearts brave and young
fell blood long ago.

The snow drives
hard on the hill.
Imprisoned is the hill
by still falling snow.

And tears fell warm
on long flowing tresses;
dressed were the tresses
in warm falling tears.

The snow drives
hard against my heart.
Engulfed is my heart
by the still falling snow.

For my heart fell then
among the red leaves.
Among the red leaves,
for my friends, long ago.

The snow fills the world
hard and cold like my heart.
Hard and cold is the world,
like my heart, from the snow.

But rain will fall soon
fresh from the heavens;
and the world will be leavened
by the good, falling rain.


The Lure of the Naiad
(Being the First Part of ‘My Pallid Queen’)

‘Twas in the brook Lieti
I first beheld my lady;
she gazed upon the waters
           running green.

Her kirtle held she to her thighs,
and dreamland’s mists were in her eyes
as gazed she at the freshet
           flowing free.

She was a sprite, a slender reed,
a graceful water bird, I deemed,
an airy nymph, this maid
           upon the stream.

A faery vision pale, and all
my lifelong hopes were hers in thrall
that moment, when I saw her
           in the stream.

The water plashing those fair limbs
pronounced she knew no earthly sin;
and all the world as innocent
           as she.

And as I held her face, her form,
I knew her holy as the dawn
that smiles upon the earth
           afresh and clean.

In her I saw all women fair,
all tenderness, all love, all care,
the sum of all that maidenhood
           could mean.

I moved a mite so she would note
this wan and callow youth’s approach,
and prayed that breath would not
           disturb the dream.

And as my glance about her played
she shook her hair to disarray,
and lowered eyes, and smiled
           upon the stream.

Oh! Dare I cross the water green,
to see her close, to touch my queen?
(Her lovely eyes uplifted
           from the stream.)

My pounding heart, my breathing taut
betrayed my feelings, as I sought
to stand among the ripples
           at her knee.

And O, the glory when that gaze
lit to my eyes, and I, amazed,
flushed o’er and mumbled words
           as in a dream.

I wound her in a shy embrace,
and placed my palms about her face;
her kirtle fell awash
           amid the stream…


From ‘The Lost Manuscripts’

Saramine
(Thus she remained, always, in the mind of Torcebrand)

And I would watch you brush
your fair, long hair,
that sleek fair hair which fell
down past your waist and, from behind you,
see it kiss the velvet skin
about your hips. How it would part
and coalesce with each stroke of the brush,
and I would listen to the sound,
the silky, rustling sweep,
all but inaudible, as that brush
would journey with repeated, swift insistence,
yet meet with such a shy, negligible resistance…
And in the looking-glass you’d catch my eye
and smile, and that would say
you knew just why I watched and could divine
what I was thinking.
You were so right.

And though you’re here no more
your brush still rests upon your shelf,
laid there by you, soft bristles everlastingly inclined,
shaped by those bewitching strokes of long ago.


Saraduen’s Song

Deeper than deepest
green of sea
my loved one’s eyes;
light
as the sea-borne breeze
his touch for mine.
Should years roll by
I love him
and waves roll by
I love him…
Deeper than deepest
green of sea
my loved one’s eyes.

Higher than highest
stars of night
my loved one’s trust;
long,
that the sea-girt bight
should turn to dust.
Should years flow by
I love him
and winds blow by
I love him…
Higher than highest
stars of night
my loved one’s trust.

Stronger than strongest
winter tide
my loved one’s faith;
firm
that horizons wide
would bend and break.
Should years go by
I love him
and dreams may die
I love him…
Stronger than strongest
winter tide
my loved one’s faith.

Deeper than deepest
green of sea
my loved one’s eyes;
light as the sea-borne breeze
his touch for mine.
Though years roll by
I love him,
and waves roll by
above him…
Deeper than deepest
green of sea
my loved one lies.

From ‘The Lost Manuscripts’

The Wakened Rose
(Nemõné’s Song)

She awoke to the night,
walked the darkened room,
in the light of the moon
set a hand to her cheek.
Tears shed in sleep
lay wet on her face,
and she strove to recover
the dream – again to find
that vanished vision
of her mind.
‘Come, sit we where the roses glow’.
No more. No more remained.
What could she make of it?
The dream had flown.
‘Come, sit we where the roses glow’:
that sole refrain in place of it…
and the redolence of roses
at the window. Her hand reached out –
one faded flower fell in petals
at her feet. She took its heart,
and held it in her palm.
The heart remained, complete.
And calmed, she knew.
One morning, slow to dawn,
every rose would stay a rose,
and not become a thorn.


Seasons with my Lady
(Senerys’ Elegy for Nemõné)

I loved you
and you pitied me
for loving you so much.
I touched you
and you came to me
not trembling at the touch.
I kissed you
and you honoured me
as paper honours pen…
I watched you,
and you smiled at me –
and loved a little, then.
And only then I read your heart.
In its pages I could see
a calendar of quiet pain
had marked your days with me.
And only when I read your heart
and quiet seasons passed,
you loved me – and I pitied you
for loving me at last.

From ‘The Lost Manuscripts’

The grass grows long among the graves
but paths have been beaten between, narrow and rank,
like animal trails, trodden by those respectful souls
who have searched and pacified in parts
islands in that encroaching overgrowth of green.
How well I know each carven name
upon the older stones – a face, each one, to me.
And I despise the stubborn grass,
allowed to grow so wild; am saddened
by so many stones left listing, cracked,
or ivy grown, protective railings
rusted through, sagging on their sunken plots
where thorns and nettles thrive,
and saplings, too, reach down their desecrating roots
to test what lies beneath the soil.
Brambles clamber over some; luxuriant berries
gleam in autumn sun – but no-one picks from here.
And everything succumbs.
Some older headstones have been hauled away
and lean against the chapel wall;
I pause. I put a face to each. I knew them all.
But oh, they’ve faded year by year… become forgotten,
and I feel that I myself am out of place, have been – mislaid.
Black marble, new, shines here and there,
with crisp incisions, rounded metal lids
like colanders, with holes for flowers; surrounds of
scattered calcite glisten white,
laid there to keep away the weeds, but were,
in days no longer here, sought keenly by
marauding teams of boys intent on scavenging
for five prize pieces, each of a chosen size
with which they’d play their ancient game.
I have quietly approached quite close, and halted
at their side; looked on. But never a need to say a word.
They would stand and stare with frightened eyes
and scatter like small birds.
They come no more. What fun in stones?
Perhaps, these days, they’ve more substantial toys.
I stand in the gap in the graveyard wall, where the stones
have tumbled down, and look along the grey back lane
to slate roofs stretching out for miles…
my up-and-down, my terraced town, with the
sleeping hills beyond. But it changes,
changes, year by year, in ways I cannot understand.
Not many walk the narrow lane these days.
I’ve heard it said by those that do there’s ‘something about’
this old back lane flanked by the graveyard wall,
some ‘presence’ hereabouts. I smile.
In all the bygone years I’ve encountered no such thing.
But superstition will abound.
When the wind blew chill one winter day
and snow lay heavy on the graves, I sought
the chapel’s sanctuary. And in the dark interior
ran my hand where the light fell weak
upon the pulpit’s wood, the old oak box
from which – how long, how long ago? – I’d sermonised.
My empty old oak box…
The heavy doors of my retreat were suddenly pushed wide.
Snow sped through and in the gloom
two women bearing pail and broom stopped dead;
they stared; they blanched; their buckets clashed upon the tiles
as they sought each other’s hands.
I wondered what could cause such fright, and turned round in surprise.
The empty flatness of the wall. No more.
And none stood there but I.

From ‘Journeys in Time’

Ewozzaspan ishnei tovowld
oozorswoz sordaboni.
Izlan swozrusti anizelm,
anewoz Donkey Hotey.

From ‘Of Poetry and Song’

Whatever, then.
The birds will still be busy by the window,
the grass still grow too fast along the path;
within it and above small things
will chirp and flutter, and on the twigs
young buds will form and break.
The Goppa will remain aspiring skyward
(and cheeky, leaping downward, Nant-yr-Allt )
with fields that fasten close, and blackthorn
scrambling up it; and silly sheep will wander
on its sides. And the ancient wind
will whisper by them always, and sun or stars
look down upon them all. The east
will still be where it was this morning,
and evening rose and gold lie in the west.
Whatever, these will be the same as always –
and nothing else will matter, will it, then?

From ‘Welsh Past and Present’

A Farming Family
(From the Chinese of Fan Ch’ang-ta, 1126-1193AD)

In daylight they go to hoe the fields;
at night they spin their flax.
Every village lad and lass
is busy at some task.
And tots who can’t yet understand
how to plough or weave
can practise planting melons
by the shade of mulberry trees.


The Farmer’s Day Begins
(From the Chinese of Mei Yao-ch’en, 1002-1060AD)

The cock crows thrice. The sky’s getting light.
Fixed up, flasks of tea, bowls of rice.
Good people, all anxious for an early start ploughing.
I pull up the window blinds. Dawn stars still gleaming.


Bamboo in Rock
(From the Chinese of Chang Hsieh, 1695-1765)

Holding firmly to the mountain,
not loosening that grip
from the first time rooted, fixed
in fissures of the rock.
Though stricken time and time again,
such strong and sturdy stems;
the winds of all four quarters
of no concern to them.


Chi Le Plain
(Anonymous, 420-589 AD)

Chi Le plain, below Yin Shan.
Sky like a tent, envelops the land.
Sky darkest grey, steppe so vast.
Wind beats grass low. See the herds pass.


Grass on the Ancient Plain
(From the Chinese of Pai Chu-yi, 772-846AD)

Grass spreads across the plain.
Each year the same recession and rebirth.
Wildfire cannot burn it up entirely –
when spring winds blow, it grows again.
From far away its scent will reach the ancient road,
its new, fresh brightness hug the ancient Wall.


From ‘Beneath the Silver River: Translations of Classical Chinese Poetry’

Upon Reflection

There is a touch of frost,
I see, among my curls.
So one would imagine that by now,
whatever gods there be
might have shown a little kindness,
and endowed me with a measure of integrity.
But they have not  – 
the churls. No… inwardly, I fear
I have not changed.

But outwardly…
Again, that winter-tinged,
that sullen gaze
stares out at me.
One thing, at least, is plain:
They don’t make mirrors
like they used to
in the good old days.


To be Gonzales

I never thought I’d see the day,
and Lord, I ask you why
I totter around the geraniums
while my grandson whizzes by.

From ‘Musings on the Merry-go-Round: A Medley of Verse for us Riders of the Earth’ 

(From the Chinese of Chao Chia, 9th century AD)

Alone I mount the riverside tower,
alone, and with a sigh.
The moon is reflected in the stream –
the stream becomes the sky.
Ah, where is she who came with me
to watch the moon just so?
Apart from this the scene is such
as it was long years ago.

From ‘Beneath the Silver River: Translations of Classical Chinese Poetry’ 

I walked
where city lights
conspired to
eclipse the stars.
But, Lord! Hung high
above them all,
pulsing in the southern void,
there burned
the fiery mountings
of Orion’s
thrice-nailed belt.

From ‘Nature’